Saati
by Quatre-sama
Summary: At the end of things, it's easier to confess to having secret longings.   SandryXDaja, written for the International Day of Femslash.


"You're not going to leave me, are you?" Sandry asked. She held onto my hand weakly, her skin hot and dry to the touch. I could see her veins clearly through her flesh – how much weight had she lost?

"_Saati_, I couldn't even if you wanted me to."

"Good. Tell me something – something secret. Something true," she said, closing her eyes as she leaned her head back against her pillows.

I've told her all of my stories of Namorn, Capchen and Olart. In the four years since our circle was reforged, we've all told each other all the tales worth telling. "What do you want to hear?"

"A love story."

My heart aches, and I caress her hand. She's only twenty-two, and I know she's never been serious about any of the men she's flirted with. She's never gone beyond light petting, she's never known the rapture of sex. And she never will.

"Polyam came through Summersea last week with Tenth Caravan Idaram," I tell her, feeling shy even though there haven't been many secrets between us. "She brought you some of the penchi silk from Yanjing."

"Is she happy? Is she well? What color is the silk?"

"They call it almond milk," I said with a smile – even in this state, she thought cloth was as important as people. "But she was the same Polyam, caustic and bitter—"

"And you loved her more than you thought possible." Her voice was wistful. "That's why you weren't here often. And you made love under the summer stars, whispering promises to each other?"

I flushed. "Something like that. She left for Ninver with the caravan, though," I said, my voice low.

"And you wouldn't leave Summersea to go with her?"

"Not with you so sick." Sandry fell ill that last Snow Moon, and by Carp Moon it was clear that she wouldn't make it to her next birthday, even with Rosethorn and the duke's best healers – and every blessed cloth Lark could drape around her former pupil, fortifying her strength and health. _Some sicknesses get fused so deep in a person that they can't be dislodged_, Briar had whispered in my mind; no one wanted to say it where Sandry could hear, even though she seemed to accept her fate more readily than the rest of us. And this was the one time we needed her stubbornness more than ever.

"You can follow your heart when I'm done with this life and on to my next," Sandry whispered, opening her eyes. They were wet with tears. "Promise me you will?"

"Don't talk like this, Sandry." I didn't have it in my heart to beg, because I knew nothing would make her stop. Even if we all came in her room and held onto each other's hands like we did almost twelve years ago, trapped in the earth and fighting for our lives. But this time we would be fighting for hers. It was strange, knowing that she had always been the strongest of us, and now she was so weak that she couldn't hold herself upright. Maybe a person had only so much strength to last their lifetime, and she had spent hers on us.

_You're not supposed to cry when you're with her_, Tris's sharp voice suddenly chastised in my mind. We had promised to stay positive. Her harshness was followed with the caress of a breeze against my tear-stained cheeks. How she controlled the air in Duke's Citadel was beyond me – but I recognized it as Tris's comfort and affection.

"What's it like to feel unconditional love, Daja?" Her eyes – as blue as the summer sky outside – were wet with unshed tears.

"You know unconditional love."

"Romantic love." Her voice cracked. "Like Lark and Rosethorn, or my mother and father. Or what I've felt for you."

I could feel the jolt of surprise through our mind connections – Briar and Tris weren't meaning to listen in, I didn't think, but they couldn't help but feel such strong emotions. I closed them out, wondering if Sandry had done so as well. She'd blocked us more and more lately, probably in an effort to keep us from feeling her pain.

I moved to sit on the bed with her, caressing her pale cheek. "Sandry, you didn't say anything."

"How could I?" She held my hand to her thin face. "It's not something I spent much time thinking about, until I started dreaming of all the things I'll never get to do. I thought I'd never be able to tell you, but there's no reason to fear rejection now, is there?" A bitter laugh – so unlike the Sandry I knew – came from her lips.

_Rejection?_ I shook my head. Refusing Sandrilene fa Toren wasn't something I was accustomed to, though Tris, Briar and I did it far more than anyone else dared. _I didn't think you were afraid of anything_, I mind-spoke.

_I'm afraid of everything: the dark, dying without telling you how I felt, leaving Uncle and Lark behind._

I wiped a tear away with my thumb, then leaned down and kissed her. Her lips were not the full, soft lips that were so quick to smile only a year before. They were dry and scratchy against my own, and when the kiss deepened, her mouth tasted of her sickness, along with the mingled salt of our tears. The kiss wasn't amazing; it didn't have that overwhelming sense of losing myself that I had experienced with Polyam, or with Rizu. But it felt like home – like our lips were always meant to be together. They were my lovers, but she was my _saati_.

_I know you don't love me that way_, she said as we kissed.

_I think I love you every way possible, at least a little bit, _I replied. She was our mother-hen, our petulant little sister, our duchess. She was my friend, and maybe with more time she could've been my lover. She was my first non-Trader friend, and in my mind her presence was as warm and comfortable as metal – even when I could feel her power waning.

I pulled away from her at last, facing the myriad of questions in her startlingly blue eyes. It was strange to see such a vibrant color amid the greys and whites of impending death. Her illness seemed to pull all the color out of life, but her eyes remained the same as ever. _I love you,_ I reassured her. I took her hand in mine and kissed her palm in the exact spot where, four years ago, the lump of thread had been absorbed into her flesh. I wished more than ever that we had that thread today, so that I could have her hold my part and take as much magic as her body could handle.

"Take this," I said, taking the crystal light we had made for her twelve years before from her nightstand. "It's not like our thread, but it's still a _bijili_ of sorts."

"It still shines as brightly as it did when you gave it to me," Sandry said, cupping the crystal in two skeletal hands. "I can feel your magic in it. And Tris's, and Briar's."

_I wish we could fill you with it, _I told her. _I wish we could follow you—_

"Don't," she commanded, her voice stronger than it had been all afternoon. "It was a mistake to go after Rosethorn, but I think it worked because it wasn't her time yet."

_And it _is_ your time?_

The question lingered for a while between us, unanswered and as heavy and labored as Sandry's breathing.

"I think it's the price of weaving magic," she finally said, her voice low. "No one else can do it, that I've ever heard of."

"It would've taken you slowly."

Sandry shrugged. "Does it even matter?"

It did matter to me, though. I needed something to blame, be it some hereditary flaw or a sickness she received from food or poisoned cloth alike.

_The only thing that matters, at the end of things,_ Sandry said in my mind, her voice stronger than I'd heard in weeks,_ is that we love. I love you, Daja. And in my next life, a part of me will still love you, you know. I think we carry love with us when we're reincarnated. _

"Then you'll have a lot to carry with you," I whispered. I leaned close to her, resting my forehead against hers. "I love you, Sandry."

She closed her eyes, smiling weakly. "And you'll carry some of my love with you?"

"Always."

She kissed me – the sweet, close-mouthed kiss of a sister, or perhaps a long-time lover who had explored every aspect of a physical relationship and now reveled in the simple connection of loving someone. "I've never shared my bed," she whispered, her voice timid. "Will you lie with me?"

I couldn't refuse; I didn't want to. I stretched myself out alongside her and wrapped an arm around her. I tried not to think about how shallow her breaths were, or how hot her body was against mine, or the way her pelvic bone jutted out when I brushed my hand over it. Instead I listened for her contented sigh, kissed her temple, and prayed that Oti Bookkeeper – or whatever equivalent Living Circle worshippers kept – had kept a good account of Sandry's deeds, so that her life after this one would be filled with love and magic. They were the things she cared most about in this life, after all. And I couldn't imagine our Sandry – _my Sandry –_ not being determined to hold on to the same things in the next life.


End file.
